


is it too late to hope?

by Hannahmayski



Series: Supernatural S1 codas [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Dean Winchester, BAMF Sam Winchester, Cold Case - Freeform, Discussions of Murder, Episode: s01e03 Dead in the Water, Gen, Murder, Peter's mother deserved answers, Peter's mother thinks sam and dean are detectives, Season/Series 01, alright i'll shut up now, also i love writing how people perceive sam and dean, and it absolutely tears me apart to think peters mum never found out what happened to her baby, and they sort of are in this case, but the sweeneys never got their story told, god all i want now is sam and dean as detectives solving cold cases holy shittt, i know it's about the barrs and the and the carltons, i love u mrs sweeney, it's very cool i love this episode so much, mrs sweeney deserved more screentime, outside pov, writing this made me want to write a detectives au or somethign
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannahmayski/pseuds/Hannahmayski
Summary: It's been 35 years since her son disappeared. It doesn't get easier.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Supernatural S1 codas [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1977949
Comments: 4
Kudos: 82





	is it too late to hope?

It nags at her every day.

There's a whole soul missing in her world. A place at the table that should be filled. A boy that she should hug.

She should have been able to watch him grow. Watch him make mistakes and achieve success. She should have watched him become a man, meet a woman, settle down and have kids and then come over for dinner on Sundays, and she'd spoil her grandchildren and let them eat candy from the pantry and then let them lose so Peter can deal with the aftermath.

There's a hole in her life. A huge, gaping hole that rips her open every morning.

Peter disappeared 35 years ago, but that doesn't make it any easier than the day he went missing.

She knows he's dead. She can't explain it in a way that makes sense, but she _knows._ A mother knows her children better than anyone on earth possibly could, and she knows he's gone.

She still lives in the same house and prays to every god she's ever heard of that she's wrong and one day Peter will stumble through the door, pink cheeks and bright eyes and a huge smile, and they'll hug and maybe she'll be okay again.

Peter's toys still decorate the house. Little toy soldiers on the mantelpiece. His old crayons in a jar next to some drawings he gave her. His trainers are jammed in the closet underneath her old linen that still requires her stitching.

When do you discard of these things? When is the right time to move on? How do you move on from the death of your own child?

She catches herself sometimes, looking at the picture of Peter pinned to the mirror in the living room.

He’s happy there. A broad smile stretches across his face ad she tries every day to make that her last memory of him. Because her son is dead, and she knows he suffered just like she knows the sky is blue.

Peter would have fought – he would have fought - and he would have died screaming and crying because Peter was raised by _her._ She looks at the picture and looks at his smile and tries to keep it in her heart, at the forefront of her mind when she thinks of him.

The not knowing is like a black hole that festers. 

It’s eaten away at her for years and years until she fears there is nothing left. There’s no investigation. Just a stack of files in the police department gathering dust and no one left to care except her.

She thinks about him every day.

She’ll remember him, even if there’s no one else left too.

It’s an ordinary day when she meets two young men.

It’s midday. Warm enough that she can wear just a blouse and be comfortable.

They’re young to be officers, but neither of them looks an ounce bit uncomfortable. No nervous fidgeting or unsure eyes darting around. They’re different from the local police too. They may be young, but even she can tell they’ve got experience. 

She drinks in every detail of the two men – it’s been years since any sort of authority has even tried to peel apart the old records of her baby’s disappearance, but they’ve come here some roundabout way. They don’t know who Peter is or that he’s missing. They’re chasing a _lead_ on something, and she can’t stop the desperate surge of hope that tears through her that someone _cares._

She answers their questions, old pain that she hasn’t felt in a long time – not since the last time she talked about Peter out loud – flares up, digs into her skull like a pickaxe.

They don’t get uncomfortable at her tears.

They don’t give her false comforts.

She appreciates that more than she realises at the time.

The tall one scans the room like he’s cataloguing every single one of her possessions like it’s a clue, like it can help, and she wants to reach out, grasp his hand in hers and tell him _if there’s anything you need – anything_ but the man meets her eyes, and the old scars that wrap tightly around his neck catch her eye, and she knows that he understands.

The shorter one – although still towering over her asks her question by question as she blabbers out a response, nothing but duct tape keeping her in one piece, but he takes it in stride, lets her emotions run and each question he asks is tailored to the last one and for once, she thinks she might have some officers who are actually competent.

Maybe she’ll finally have some answers. Maybe she can finally stop imagining what happened to Peter, letting her mind wander down dangerous paths.

She wants to put her son to rest, even she never has a body. She wants to tell Peter’s story. She wants the world to know how beautiful he was, how full of life he was, how he was absolutely smitten with little toy soldiers and kept such good care of them.

The two men leave after she's served them tea and biscuits, and she has told them every little piece of Peter she knows, and they both listen with rapt attention. In turn, she ignores the way the shorter man’s fingers have been broken and poorly healed and the not-so-old bruises that peek out from under his shirt and the way the taller one positions himself like a wall, between the front door and anything that could harm his partner.

They remind her of her husband. Strung out and worn from atrocities he saw and could never speak of. 

They all have their secrets, and these two officers are the first two people to show a genuine interest in Peter in years, and she knows that they can handle it.

She’s a mother, and she knows what’s best for her boy, and she knows these two are the best thing that Peter can get.

It’s been 35 years, and somehow, she still has hope.

A day later the taller one shows up. Peter’s bike – dirty and rusted and old and _there_ – and the man looks at her through haggard features and old clothes but there’s a look in his eyes as he meets her own and she knows that today, she’ll get her answers.

It’s been 35 years since her son disappeared and maybe knowing will help her piece herself back together again. Maybe it won’t. But she owes it to her baby to hear it.

Peter’s story deserves to be told. Peter deserves to be remembered.

The man steps over the threshold of the house, and she waits for her world to fall apart.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank u for reading!!


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